Death may seem an odd subject as I write this between Christmas and New Year’s Day—a season of birth and renewal— but in remembering we keep those alive who have passed on. My father, on March 28, was among the departed of 2011. The parade of the deceased has marched steadily by since then—most of them from my Dad’s generation. What better time of the year to remember the dead, because by mourning we celebrate their lives and refrain from forgetting them too soon.
Why so grim, Mr. Reaper? If people weren't dying to meet you, you wouldn't have a job.
We prefer to laugh at death, keeping it at a distance for fear it rubs against us. Diminishing the last cold grasp we will ever feel before shuffling off this mortal coil is accomplished through dark humor and euphemisms. You may have noticed I have already used a number of those cushioned words and phrases that have become substitutes for death and dying—passed on, departed and shuffling off this mortal coil.
There is no word more euphemized than death. Make that euthanized, because we are striving to put that word, signifying stark finality, out of its misery. As a community newspaper editor I scratched my head at the outrageous avoidances of the word in obituaries. It’s as if by not saying death, died and dead that we have somehow defeated it. If I bother to leave my own obituary behind, I shall say I died on such and such a date and hope that whatever else is mentioned is brief and to the point. Maybe by that time I will have accomplished something deserving of a paragraph before launching into my survivors and funeral arrangements.
But I am getting ahead of myself here—way ahead of myself, I’d like to think—because I wanted to tell you some things I hope won’t be stated in my obituary to describe my passing:
—Don’t say I went to my final resting place, because I like to think the soul will live on forever and mine will be immersed in an active lifestyle, er, deathstyle, for time immemorial. Perhaps it will even come back a few times to partake of other lives, though I can only suspect such things will happen. Forever is far too long to rest.
—I don’t want to go to the sweet bye-and-bye, because when you get to some place bye-and-bye it’s a rather circuitous route. Let’s get there and do what has to be done—unless it’s a final resting place and then I wouldn’t mind dawdling a bit.
—I don’t want to buy the farm, kick the bucket or cash in my chips, but I prefer it to something sanctimonious like being embraced in God’s bosom, singing with the angels or tending the garden of tender mercies. Not that wouldn’t mind being embraced by God, but it seems a little presumptuous to predict in an obit. I’m not much of a gardener, so count the tender mercies out. I can sing a bit, so I wouldn’t mind a gig with an angelic band, assuming classic rock is acceptable.
If I become deceased, joining the legions of the dearly departed, I pray my expiration date allows me to turn mellow like fine wine instead of souring like old milk. If my plug is pulled and I go offline for good, I may find myself in the Elysian Fields listening to the fat lady sing. Then I will know it is time to pay the piper—or whoever is accompanying the fat lady—and will gracefully lay down my life and join the mortally challenged in eternal rest. There I expect to make new friends, perhaps meeting the reaper himself or hitching a ride with the grim ferryman. Maybe I can even cheer him up before we get to the other side?
I suppose, after I answer the last call and awaken to life immortal, I may pay a visit to Davey Jones’s Locker, though I’ve never been big on ocean excursions. My number may be up and I may be tapped out, but I’ll only be down for the count as a mortal, for my soul—or so I have been promised—will live on. I will be giving up the ghost, freeing the spirit, after St. Peter answers my knock on Heaven’s Door, but a new beginning is not a bad thing, even if it is redundant. I shall then be on permanent vacation, as they say, having breathed my last and entered the big sleep. (Apparently breathing is not required while awake or asleep in Heaven. If it is, it could be Hell.)
Some might say that when we have answered the call, it is like pushing up daisies, becoming worm’s meat or shitting the bed, but that is only if you don’t believe in the immortality of the soul and are convinced your ultimate destination is toes up six feet under, returning to dust, snuffed for good and stone cold in a dreamless sleep.
Should the day come when the curtain falls and you cease to exist, joining the ranks of ex-persons, remember you have arrived at that last refuge and have finally reached the proverbial journey’s end. Wherever you are, take a good look around, if you are able, and I will make this one guarantee. It is not going to be like anything you’ve ever imagined.
For all of the living, I bid you a happy, healthy and prosperous new year. For those who have embarked into that good night, I wish you a glorious eternity.
